Come Along My Broken Heart
by Sherlockian-Vortex
Summary: After John and Mary's wedding, Sherlock is heartbroken. He goes to Mycroft for a case, mission, something that would distract him from the overwhelming amount of sentiment inside him. Mycroft tells Sherlock about a threat in Eastern Europe of a group called the Fox Den, trying to reconstruct Moriarty's network with the help of outside informants. Six months later, madness ensues.
1. Chapter 1

*The characters are not mine*

**_Chapter One:_**

"We can't dance with three people. There are some limits." John said. He was glowing, or at least he was going to his very best to appear glowing and happy. It was his wedding day. He was married, and now he and Mary were expecting a baby. This was, without a doubt, the most important day of his life.

"Yes, there are." Sherlock smiled. It was reluctant, but he did his best to make it look real. He squinted his eyes just enough so they creased like they would in a real smile.

John grinned back at him and took Mary's hand. Conversely, Mary looked at Sherlock with a look that matched the pain he was feeling. She knew when he was fibbing, even when John didn't. She was scared about having a baby, but excited too. Sherlock wanted to be happy for them. He really did. However, as John turned his back and lead his wife to the middle of the dance floor away from Sherlock, away from the life they had together, Sherlock felt completely lost.

Everything seemed to slow down at once. The music that had been pumping in the background, faded to the background. The laughter and conversation became muffled. Everything seemed to grow a little darker and a little farther away. He looked around the room for someone to dance with, but no one was there to be his partner. No bother. Sherlock didn't feel like dancing anyway, and he would hate to intrude on anyone else's festivities. He quietly exited the dance floor and took his coat and scarf from the coat room.

He stepped out into the warm night. It had been the perfect day for a wedding: sunny and warm. Of course that didn't stop him from wearing his coat over his tuxedo. He was a little too warm, but that hardly mattered. He wanted, _needed_, his coat. It was his defense and his home. In this coat he could be the great Sherlock Holmes. The man John admired and respected. The man John could have grown to love. Sherlock shook his head, scolding himself. _No thoughts like that are allowed now, Sherlock. John's moved on. Mary is a wonderful woman. They will be very happy together. _

Of course those thoughts didn't help quell the emptiness of his stomach and how his feet felt like they were weighed down by metal chains. Unthinkingly, Sherlock rubbed his wrists. He shouldn't be thinking about chains either. He had spent far too much time in them for the past two years. But that how it all started didn't it?

He had been by the police about to be taken into custody when John had been thrown on the car next to him. The two of them had been chained together and then they had become fugitives together. It was thrilling, and Sherlock had never wanted it to end. But as they say, all good things come to an end, which meant that his life with John Watson had to, at some point cease to exist. He still bore scars marks from the chain that had tied him and John together. But they weren't scars that anyone could see, because they marked his heart and not his skin.

Then came the chains that bound him to walls. The chains that made him feel helpless and hopeless, even though he never let his enemies know. John had kept him strong in those times, directing him on how to be cold, calculating, and a general dick. He still heard John's voice, but it was less often now. Unfortunately, he could never control when John became a presence in his mind palace. It was much like the real John, though. Sherlock never really could predict the man.

Sherlock shook his head once more. He'd been thinking too much. For once, he didn't want to think. He was tired. He wanted a break he feared even sleep couldn't provide. If he had exhibited insomniac tendencies before, then they were even worse now. He paused in his tracks. He'd been walking without direction and was unsure where he was exactly. John and Mary had held their wedding just outside of London in an area that Sherlock hadn't memorized, and he'd been too nervous on the way to the party to accurately pay attention to the roads that had gotten them to the reception hall.

The detective stopped in his path without warning, causing the person behind him to walk right into him; however, Sherlock was too numb to feel it, and he waved the man off as he tried to apologize. Putting his hand out, he flagged for a taxi. The sooner he got back to 221b the better.

By the time Sherlock got back to the flat he was exhausted, truly exhausted. Every bone in his body seemed to sag and every muscle felt sore. His normally straight posture was hunched over as he unlocked the door to 221b. He opened the door and closed it behind him.

Sherlock stumbled up the staircase into the sitting room, deciding to sprawl out on the floor. He didn't bother to turn on the light. It was easier to grieve in the dark. Darkness could hide him; shield him unlike light, which only exposed him. That would explain John, wouldn't it? The conductor of light had left Sherlock more exposed than he could have ever imagined. Well damn him. Sherlock had tried so hard to not get along with people. He didn't need friends. He only needed allies. Then John came along, and suddenly Sherlock savored having company. He liked talking to John and guiding him through deductions. It was enjoyable.

_Stop it Sherlock!_ He scolded himself, but he simply couldn't stop. The entire day had been about John. It had been his wedding. Well, it had been Sherlock's wedding too. He had spoken his one and only vow, pledging himself to John and Mary. It only made sense, since the two of them were one unit. They worked well together.

As the evening passed by, it became more and more evident to Sherlock that he couldn't hold himself together any longer. He was aching for… something. Perhaps it was love or companionship, but he couldn't tell the difference anymore. The detective stood up, despite his protesting limbs, and stumbled up the stairs to John's room. What had been John's room, he supposed.

One reason that he adored 221b Baker Street was all the hiding places. There were so many nooks and crannies and hiding spots. John had never found a single one, which was to be expected. He had a tendency to fail to observe the world around him. Sherlock chuckled slightly. John had many tendencies that were the opposite of his, but he'd liked that. It made John more interesting to figure out.

John's room wasn't as dusty as one might expect, since the room's occupant had moved on. This was simply because the world's only consulting detective had taken to going to John's room on a fairly regular basis. Ever since he had returned to London, Sherlock's nightmares had been brutal. He now understood what it had been like for John. On many nights, when John's screams reached Sherlock's ear, causing the detective would run to his room. Sherlock was always worried about John becoming embarrassed that he couldn't control his nightmares, so Sherlock never went inside. Instead he stood outside the soldier's room and would play squealing notes on his violin to wake John from his night terrors, and then he would play John's song. It was a bit of a lullaby, a bit of a love song, and everything that made up John Watson as well as Sherlock's own feelings for him. He'd played an adaption of that song at the wedding but selfishly kept the original for himself.

Most nights Sherlock wished that there was someone there to comfort him during his nightmares. However, he always tried to dismiss those thoughts quickly. He wasn't in need of company. He had done well without it before, and he could do without it again. Of course, it would be harder to do it this time, because he'd had a taste of living life with someone else. It was like smoking. It was addictive to live with someone else, to love someone else. And it was terribly hard to quit cold turkey, and even harder to do it without asking for help. Sherlock had no intention of asking anyone for help. Maybe he did when he arrived back from his years on the run, but that was done. He'd rather be alone now.

Sherlock all but fell onto John's bed once he had gotten close enough to it. The sheets and pillows had long since lost the scent of the previous occupant, but Sherlock didn't mind anymore. He bought the same cheap detergent that John used and every once in a while, he'd use the same shampoo and shaving products that John used. It never seemed quite right on him, but he had taken to imagining that the scent was still from John as he smelt it on the pillow. He did this now, but it had been a few days since he had done his Watson routine, so the pillow smelt of him instead. Maybe that was a blessing for the night. Sherlock wouldn't be constantly reminded of his blogger.

He closed his eyes, begging for an uneventful night of sleep. His thoughts disagreed with him, though. Instead they speed up as Sherlock attempted to sleep. Images of the wedding played behind his eyes. Strings of sentences from John repeated themselves in Sherlock's ears. Sherlock groaned and put the pillow over his head, as if the object could protect him from his own thoughts. The thoughts were unceasing and after half an hour of trying to ward them off Sherlock finally gave in.

The bed creaked as he sat on the edge of it, staring at the wardrobe that used to hold John's cloths. It had come with the flat, and John, being a practical man, never thought to move it. Sherlock, being quite the opposite, had found a small opening behind the wardrobe. Originally, he had nothing to hide in it. Of course, that sentiment changed as soon as John Watson had come into the picture. The absolute certainty that John had exhibited when he believed that Sherlock had never been a junkie was enough to make Sherlock cringe.

The next time that John was out of the flat, Sherlock had taken his box, hidden expertly behind his sock drawer, and hidden it in John's room. As he had said at the wedding, John kept him right. John had saved his life. In many ways this was true, but perhaps one of the most important things that John had done was saving Sherlock from himself. John had given Sherlock the strongest support to stay clean than anyone else had. Yes, by the time they had met Sherlock was clean. He was no longer an addict to the drugs, but every once in a while he relapsed. Just a bit here, a bit there, it was never enough for anyone to notice. John changed that, as he changed many things about Sherlock.

However, he was gone from Sherlock now. He'd be leaving for his sex holiday soon, and after that he'd be preparing for the baby. Sherlock had no place in their family. So he stood from the bed and moved the wardrobe just a bit to the left, opened the hiding place in the wall and took out the box.

He took it back to the bed, sitting on the edge of it. He stared at the smooth wooden lid. It was a beautiful box that enclosed a hideous thing. _How fitting_, Sherlock mused. Whether he was referring to himself or to his relationship with John he wasn't sure. Regardless, he took out a syringe filled with heroin and studied it. Academically, he knew that turning to drugs was dangerous and could go very badly. However, emotionally, he could think of no other option. He needed release and he needed it now. His body refused to sleep. There were no sleeping tablets in the flat, since he had taken the last one the previous night and hadn't been out to buy more. This was what he wanted. He raised the needle to his arm just above a blue colored vein, uttered "I'm sorry John. I'm so sorry," and slid the needle under his skin.

A faint buzz rippled through his skin as he lay back onto the sheets imagining that John was there instead of an empty space. But of course that would never happen. Sherlock Holmes was destined to live and die alone, and John was meant to live a normal life with a wife and kids.

"Work faster!" Sherlock yelled unexpectedly toward the track mark in his arm. He'd already thrown the needle onto the ground. He didn't need it anymore. He was on the verge mixing too many chemicals together anyway. He'd put on three, no… four, nicotine patches for the wedding. He doubted that he could have made it the entire time without the drug pumping through his veins.

"Sherlock…" came a disapproving voice from the corner, causing Sherlock to sit up immediately.

"John?"

"Sherlock, what have we discussed about using drugs. You're hurting yourself." It was John as Sherlock always pictured him, from the time before the Fall. From a time when John could have still loved him back.

"I don't care." Sherlock dismissed him, waving a hand haphazardly. "I needed to see the John Watson that I knew before all this."

"You can't keep doing this Sherlock." John walked over to the detective and stroked his forehead with a gentle hand. Sherlock said nothing in return, watching John. He drank in every movement without his normal restraint. He allowed his eyes to roam over John's face. The warm, blue eyes could have swallowed Sherlock up in their vastness. Sherlock wished that was a plausible option. It would not be a bad fate to spend the rest of his life swimming in those eyes.

"Are you even listening to me Sherlock?" John asked slightly annoyed. He had stopped touching Sherlock, causing the detective to whine softly.

"Not remotely." Sherlock answered candidly. "I know the risks of using drugs, and I needed a release. There is nothing else to discuss."

John opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock cut him off. "I barely see you anymore, now. Can you please stop lecturing me and just accompany me for the night?"

John's face softened at Sherlock's words. A crooked smile made its way onto John's face as he shooed Sherlock. "Move over then. You're taking up the entire bed."

The detective shifted in the bed to make room for John, watching him situate under the covers before inviting Sherlock to join him. The rough sheets rubbed against him as he slid next to John. Of course it wasn't John, it was just his brain projecting his image, but that seemed to be as close as he could get at the moment.

As soon as Sherlock became situated he became tired and tried to stifle a yawn. John saw it, though. He reached over and brushed the curls on Sherlock's head.

"You've seemed more tired lately Sherlock." John observed, tracing the dark circles under his eyes. He'd gone through great lengths that morning the apply makeup in a subtle enough manner that no one would notice.

"It was anxiety for the wedding." Sherlock answered, moving closer to John, longing for some touch of body warmth. But there was none to be found.

"Why? It wasn't your wedding?" John asked genuinely. Sherlock's heart ached for this to be real and not just his mind. It almost made dealing with all of this more difficult. _Almost_.

"I exchanged vows, didn't I?" Sherlock responded. "I vowed to protect John and his family. If John is happy and safe, then I can live in relative peace. That's all I hope for at this point." Sherlock looked into John's eyes the entire time. They were memorizing.

"So the man who claimed to be disgusted by sentiment, got married anyway?" John asked incredulous.

"If you want to phrase it like that," Sherlock nodded. His head sank into the pillow, his eyes closing.

"Sleep now Sherlock. I'll watch over you." John said softly into Sherlock's ear. With the words of his best friend and the overwhelming image of his eyes, Sherlock drifted into a deep sleep. He had no nightmares and no panic attacks, sleeping peacefully for the first time since returning to London.


	2. Chapter 2

When Sherlock awoke the next morning, John was no longer beside him. There was no divot in the bedding to indicate that anyone had ever slept next to Sherlock, and, of course, no one ever would. The detective rolled over wanting more sleep, more drugs, more of anything that would make him forget. Nothing came to release him. The detective lay in John's bed wondering what he should do now. The answer was obvious. He should move on with his life. Find a case. Find a new flatmate. Find a new direction in life. Sherlock closed his eyes. There was no use. He had his chance at the perfect life, or at least as perfect as life could be for him, and he'd given it all up.

What if he hadn't jumped that morning? Mycroft's men could have convinced the assassins to reconsider killing the three most important people in his life. He never would have had to fake his death. He wouldn't have faced those two years away from John, being tortured in small, dark cells. John wouldn't have found someone else. John wouldn't be married. John wouldn't be an expecting father.

_Stop this Sherlock. These thoughts are getting you nowhere. _Sherlock scolded himself. _You need to get up and suppress these emotions. Just like you used to do. It wasn't so long ago that you hid every emotion. You might be rusty at first, but that will soon change. _Sherlock nodded his head to no one in particular. He needed to reorganize himself. Clear his head of all thoughts of John. He needed to leave this room and never return.

Sherlock shoved the duvet and got up from the bed so abruptly that he gave himself a head rush. He didn't wait for it to pass, walking out of John's room as quickly as possible. He slammed the door behind him. The resounding "_BANG!_" was satisfying. Sherlock promised himself that he would never enter that room again. He was done with John Watson. If they ever saw each other again, they would be strictly colleagues, nothing more and nothing less.

Straightening his back, the detective walked into his own room, which was surprisingly dusty. It didn't matter. Soon enough the dust would clear. He hastily removed the wedding tuxedo he still was wearing. The trash bin clattered as he violently threw the suit into it. Slowly he turned around and looked at his closet of button down shirts and black suits. He put one on, deliberately fastening each button with precision, willing his mind to focus all of his attention on it. When he was dressed, Sherlock walked out of his room only to be faced with John's chair. It was as much as an embodiment of John as his atrocious sweaters and morning tea, and Sherlock couldn't stand the sight of it.

The chair was heavy, but not heavy enough for Sherlock to be unable to move it up the stairs all the way to John's bedroom door. He refused to go back into the room, so he left the chair outside the door as a barrier for him and for anyone else who ever wished to enter.

A breath of relief fell from Sherlock's lips as he nearly ran back downstairs. It was easier to ignore the gap in his heart without John's chair taunting him. However, the chair's absence seemed to scream at Sherlock. The emptiness in its wake was nearly as bad as its presence. Sherlock closed his eyes to remind himself that John wasn't coming back. The chair was unneeded, and it was removed from the area. Out of sight, out of mind- that was how the old saying went.

Of course, out of sight didn't really mean out of mind, but Sherlock was willing to overlook that minor error. It was good enough for now. He allowed himself one deep breath, pushed all his emotions down, and steeled him for the day. He would not think of John Watson again. That part of his life was over, and he had to learn to function with only himself as company.

His next task… what would he normally do on a day like this? He would phone Lestrade for a case. However, Sherlock didn't want to interact with Lestrade today. He would be boring, talking about the wedding. He would be dull- intolerable. Sherlock certainly couldn't withstand that.

So to the laptop it was. Hopefully someone would have contacted him for help on an interesting case. A locked room murder. A mysterious death. A homicidal neighbor. Anything would do. However, there were fewer e-mails than usual when Sherlock checked, and the cases that he did get were all frivolous. There were too many cheating spouses and stolen lottery tickets in the world. Those cases ranked a one at best, and he didn't want to deal with them.

Sherlock slammed the laptop closed impatiently. He needed to put his mind to work. It was rotting away just sitting here. There was still one option left. Yes… normally he wouldn't bear the thought of it, but today was a special occasion. It would be a distraction at least. Sherlock got up, swiftly took his coat from its hook in the empty closet, and put it on with a flourish.

Sherlock rapped three times on the wooden door, leaving the knocker skewed to the side when he let go. The door opened almost immediately to let Sherlock in.

"Well brother dear, I can't say that I expected you to come here today." Mycroft greeted as Sherlock entered his home. It was an expensive flat on Old Queen's street, furnished with dark wood and paintings of important dead people.

"I think you might have. You were right at the door when I knocked, and the crumbs on your suit say that you've already had cake this morning. You swore you were on a diet again just a week ago. Greg complained about the abundance of "rabbit food" in your apartment. At least that's how he put it. In any case, you bought cake for a visit. I'm the most likely to visit besides Lestrade. After I called you at the wedding, you ordered the cake expecting me to come over at some point. Figured it would be a nice treat. Maybe it would entice me to eat. Well I wouldn't count on that, but I'm sure Greg will appreciate the gesture when he comes over later."

Sherlock took his coat and scarf off, hanging them on the antique coat stand by the door. Mycroft looked at him without blinking an eye at his comments. "I suspected that you might come over. I'm sure yesterday was difficult for you, and-"

"I'm simply looking for a case, Mycroft." Sherlock interrupted his brother. "There was nothing interesting from my website and Lestrade is probably too hungover right now to even remember that he works for the New Scotland Yard."

"Ahh, yes. I see." Mycroft nodded, gesturing Sherlock toward the living area. "I believe that I might be able to help you find a _distraction_, as you might say."

Sherlock walked ahead of Mycroft to the sitting room. It looked exactly like the rooms at the Diogenes Club. All dark colors and tall bookcases. It felt stuffy, but it was a departure from Baker Street, and that alone pleased Sherlock. The detective seated himself in the brown leather chair that Mycroft normally sat in. A huff of annoyance came from Mycroft's direction, but Sherlock pretended not to hear it.

"The case?" Sherlock prompted as his brother sat in the chair opposite him.

"Yes. There's a threat brewing in Eastern Europe. We don't know how dangerous it is at the moment, but if you were looking to vacation this might be your chance." Mycroft raised his eyebrow at Sherlock and settled back into his seat.

"What's the threat?"

"We believe that it might be a thread of Moriarty's web," Mycroft eyed his brother, waiting for a reaction. Sherlock gave nothing other than a tilt of his head- a sign of interest and perhaps confusion, but anxiety was silently brewing behind his gaze triggered at the mention of Moriarty.

"But I took down Moriarty's web." It wasn't a question, but it demanded an answer.

"Apparently not all of it. We only recently noticed this development." Mycroft replied calmly.

"You should have noticed it more quickly." Sherlock snapped.

"Nevertheless you have been informed now. Unless you would like me to travel backwards in time, then I must inform you of my inability to do so," Mycroft said, gauging Sherlock's reaction once again. Sherlock closed his eyes and took in a slow breath and exhaled it. As he did so all his features smoothed out. Mycroft could tell that he was repressing his emotions again. He had seen his brother do this many times, but it seemed that it was getting more difficult for him.

"Tell me the threat then."

"There's an organization called the Lisitsa Bŭrloga, or the Fox Den in English. The group is hiding in the Balkan Mountains of Bulgaria. We don't know the extent of their plain, but it seems like the leader of the organization has been working with outside intelligence to reconstruct Moriarty's web. At the moment, we have no information on any immediate threats. However, I'm sure you can imagine what would happen if they were to succeed in their plans."

"What outside intelligence?" Sherlock asked harshly.

"We're still unsure, but the evidence suggests a man named Sebastian Moran. There are other people involved as well, but they're very good at covering their tracks. Eventually they will misstep, and we will identify them-"

"But for now you have no other leads." Sherlock finished Mycroft's sentence.

"Precisely," Mycroft answered. Sherlock nodded his head and steepled his fingers under his chin. It would be dangerous. He could tell that much. All the energy of Moriarty's remaining men would be going into this operation. However, if what Mycroft said was true, and they were rebuilding Moriarty's web then eventually even remaining in London would be more dangerous.

He never should have come home. He never should have reconnected with John. He could have solved the terrorist attack and left London. His beloved London, it would be unfortunate to leave this city again, but perhaps it would be easier this time. There would be less to leave behind. John could go on with his domestic life without Sherlock there to ruin it. Perhaps it would be for the best of everyone if he took this case. Perhaps he needed to disappear again and this time for good.

"When do I leave?"

The door of 221B Baker Street shut with a soft thud. It was a noise Sherlock often associated with home, and soon he wouldn't hear it again. Not for a long time at least.

"Sherlock is that you?" Mrs. Hudson called from the kitchen. Sherlock smiled for a moment at the sound of her voice. He had missed her dearly during his previous absence from London, and he was sure to miss her during this one.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. I was out this morning. I was called about a case and had to meet with the client." It wasn't entirely a lie.

"You did, did you?" Mrs. Hudson asked as Sherlock joined her in the kitchen. The lines of her face softened as she looked at Sherlock. She took in the bags under his eyes and the emptiness of those very eyes themselves. She asked, "Sherlock why did you leave the wedding so early?"

"I had performed my duties as the best man, and I could see that I was not needed any more." Sherlock said simply.

"Oh Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson started to say, but the detective interrupted before she could continue.

"I am a busy man Mrs. Hudson. I can't spend my entire evening at a wedding." He was back to the cold, calculated self. He saw Mrs. Hudson's face fall just slightly as she heard him make that switch.

"But it was John's wedding, Sherlock. You should have stayed. Just for him," she said this in a motherly manner as she poured a cup of tea for herself and Sherlock.

"That was precisely why I could not stay." The words rushed out of Sherlock's mouth before he could stop them. He looked down at the floor, knowing that his landlady would see right through him. "Thank you for the tea Mrs. Hudson, and I apologize that I can't stay down here and drink it with you. I'm leaving for the before mentioned case tonight, and I must go pack my bags."

"Tonight? Doesn't that seem a little sudden to you?" Mrs. Hudson asked, handing Sherlock his cup of tea.

"Not at all. When a case comes up that's interesting enough, it's my duty to solve it. If the case requires traveling, then I must travel. It's very simple really." Sherlock took a sip of the hot liquid. Not enough sugar and too much milk. John always knew how to do it perfectly. _John isn't around anymore. Get used to it Sherlock. _

"Yes, I can understand that. But Sherlock, it's so soon after the wedding. Just put it off for another week and stay in London for a while longer."

"My mind needs the work, or I'll go insane. There's been too much talk of weddings and sentiment the past few weeks. I simply need a break away from it all." Sherlock bent down and kissed Mrs. Hudson's cheek. "I'll be down to say good bye before I leave."

With that the detective left the kitchen with a billow of his coat and a cup of black tea. Mrs. Hudson watched him go with a look of pity in her eyes. Her heart moved for all that Sherlock had lost when John said "I do" to a beautiful woman in a white gown. It had been a happy occasion for everyone except him, she supposed. Briefly, Mrs. Hudson wondered if that was how her maid of honor had felt when she got married, but pushed the thought away when she began to think of hurting her best friend in the way that Sherlock was hurting.

Sherlock walked up the stairs, slower than he would normally tolerate for fear of spilling any tea. He didn't even glance in the direction of the next staircase that led to John's room. He only looked forward as he moved toward his own room. He set the cup of tea down on the wardrobe as he bent down to look at his belongings. There was a duffle bag in the back of the wardrobe. Sherlock had only used it a few times when he and John had to travel for a case. It was small enough to carry onto a plane, but large enough to hold several days worth of clothing.

It was a bit smaller than ideal, but Sherlock would make do with it. He worried that anything much larger would impede him if he needed to run at a moment's notice. After the Fall, that had happened on several occasions. The first time he had managed to get away with his belongings. The second time he wasn't as lucky.

Mycroft might not be able to help much on this mission, so Sherlock didn't want to take his chances. He put several neatly folded suits into his bag. He dug a little deeper into the wardrobe, looking for his disguise stash of clothing. He debated over bringing some of the more detailed disguises like the clown one, but he decided against it. He added a few hoodies, jeans, and general tourist clothing to his bag, as well as a makeup kit and a wig. There had been several cases where Sherlock's cosmetics skills were effectively put to use. He smiled fondly at the memory of the formal gala where he and John had pretended to be a couple. It had been a fun evening and an interesting case. _And it wasn't something that could ever be repeated_, Sherlock reminded himself spitefully as he shoved a few toiletries into the bag.

His phone buzzed in his pocket where he put it this morning after nearly throwing it in the bin with his best man's suit. He picked the phone up wondering who would contact him.

**Sherlock, Mycroft's just told me about this case you're going on. I don't think it's safe. - GL**

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the Detective Inspector and tapped out a quick reply.

**Most of the cases I undertake are "unsafe" –SH**

Sherlock went back to packing. He had everything he needed, except his laptop. He left the room to go find it in its usual place on the desk in the sitting room. He picked the computer up and tucked it under his arm. He turned to leave, but something caught his eye on the desk. It was a picture of him and John that Lestrade must have taken during their stag night. He and John were leaning close together. Their arms were around each other's shoulders, and they were both grinning freely. Sherlock had no memory of the picture being taken, but a small part of his was glad that it had been. That night had been the last time Sherlock truly had John all to himself. He knew he was being sentimental, but he picked the picture anyway and put it in his left breast pocket.

**You know what I mean. This is much more dangerous than your normal cases. –GL**

**I'll be fine. It's nothing that I haven't done before- SH **

Sherlock returned to his room. He put the laptop into his bag. Since there was still some room in the bag, he decided to add a box of nicotine patches.

**This isn't a reaction to John getting married is it? –GL**

**Because there are other ways of dealing with whatever you're feeling. You don't need to throw yourself head first into a suicide mission. –GL**

There was a knock on the door, signaling the arrival of his cab to the airport.

**It's not a suicide mission if I don't plan on dying. –SH**


End file.
